


a telltale heart for valentine's day

by Stabbsworth



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Gore, Graphically Described Self-Harm, Self-Harm, and i don't want it to be even the vaguest bit titilating, it's not even intended to be titilating, this is not going to be titilating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stabbsworth/pseuds/Stabbsworth
Summary: Wilson is very much accustomed to doing self-destructive actions.
Kudos: 16





	a telltale heart for valentine's day

**Author's Note:**

> heavy trigger warnings on this one. i wouldn't suggest reading if you're all that squeamish about self-harm.

He watches as the flesh of his arm rips, pain ablaze in his nerves and nerve endings and god knows what else as he gathers the required reagents to make a heart. It's dubiously an act of self harm, an act of hatred for his own self and his own body and whatever he is or could be reasonably considered to be.

Whether he had assistance from claws or a razor (clean, no beard hair stuck to the joint or the blade) is unknown. He doesn't remember all that much of it, and perhaps it's better that way, frankly. Perhaps it's better that his memory tends to be rather defective. It enables him to forget things that he shouldn't have seen, things he shouldn't have mentioned.

The others required a backup, of a sort. He knew this all too well, always keeping a meat effigy around when he had the materials to create one. He considered using the flesh from his corpse, but, as usual, it disintegrated into some unholy dust. A whiff of the fumes would've probably sent him staggering back to base.

A Telltale Heart for Valentine's Day.

Of course, these were made from a horrid venom gland, bound with grasses and with a blood sacrifice. He suspects dark magic is at work with these, they beat in rhythm to something.

Blood drips from his arm and onto the mishmash of ingredients, woven with a little too much love and care put into them.

They needed backups.

Backups were good.

Approximately five minutes later (blood was abominably slow at actually coming out of the wounds he'd inflicted on himself to create some revival mechanism), he'd bandaged himself up and agreed with himself never to speak or think of that ever again. With any luck, he'd probably end up forgetting it and nobody would question him on why he's now bandaged up under his gloves.

...Yes, he did remember to take his gloves... er, heat-sleeves... hand adornments off. Good, that fabric is annoying at best to repair and he's very much not keen on asking someone for help with that one, these are very personal items that he wears.


End file.
